


Twisted Fate

by kim47



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon fic, M/M, Magic Reveal, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 07:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Mordred hesitantly moves forward again, clearly sensing Arthur’s reluctance is not a dismissal, and this time Arthur grabs him and kisses him fiercely. It looks rough and punishing, but that doesn’t seem to trouble Mordred, who lets Arthur move him as he wishes, who makes these soft, panting noises into Arthur’s mouth.</i>
</p><p>In which Merlin can hardly breathe under the weight of prophecy, and things seem to be spinning totally out of control.</p><p> <del>Also Mordred is Dumbledore.</del></p>
            </blockquote>





	Twisted Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Um. I was thinking about things after 5x05, and this happened. It's not at all what I had in mind when I started writing it (it has much happier ending for one), but it just sorta went where it wanted to. I owe hobnailedboots for supplying me with part of the idea, and it was also helped along by a comment falling_voices made on tumblr. 
> 
> Thanks to sophia for looking this over <3

It’s hard not to notice. 

Merlin’s spent all day, every day, with Arthur and his knights for years. He’s watched Arthur train new knights and old, he knows what Arthur’s like on the training field. He’s seen how good a leader of his men Arthur is, how implicitly they trust him. While never forgetting that he’s their king, he can tell that they think of him as a brother. 

Mordred is different.

Merlin can’t put his finger on why exactly, but Arthur is different with him. Knighting him, for one thing, so quickly, when Mordred was still so untested. He pushes him hard in training, doesn’t show him any special favours or go easier on him. But he’s quicker with a smile, with a pat on the shoulder, with a word of encouragement.

Merlin, watching on the sidelines, doesn’t like it.

He can never shake the vision from his mind, the sight of Arthur fallen by Mordred’s hand. It troubles his dreams at night, too, he sees it happening in vivid, shocking colours. Merlin’s always there too, _just_ out of reach, that tiny bit too far away to stop Mordred, to save Arthur. 

Every time Mordred raises his sword against Arthur in practise, every blow he lands, Merlin flinches.

And, much as he would like to be able to say that all his dislike and wariness of Mordred is entirely founded in rational fear and the fierce protectiveness he feels over Arthur, he knows it isn’t true. 

There’s a part of him that dislikes Mordred simply because Arthur seems to like him so very much. It’s the part that notices every time Arthur clasps Mordred’s shoulder, praises him, smiles at him.

It’s a part he hates.

*

Merlin hadn’t planned to follow Mordred, but when he caught sight of him in the deserted corridor outside his chambers, dressed as though he’s planning to leave the castle, his curiosity got the better of him. It’s only natural to follow him, surely, to make certain he was not still in the service of Morgana or some other of Camelot’s enemies?

Merlin slips quietly behind him; for all that Arthur complains he’s useless on a hunt, he can be stealthy when he wants to. Mordred walks quickly, but he doesn’t seem in any great hurry, nor does he seem particularly anxious. He calls out cheerfully to the guards as he passes through the gates, and instead of heading down the path out of Camelot, he turns onto the road that leads to the lower town. 

It’s possible there’s someone in town that he’s meeting, another sorcerer, perhaps, or one of the many enemies Arthur has made in his few years on the throne. Not everyone has shared Arthur’s vision of a fairer, more equal land. Merlin’s mind is alight with theories and suspicions, he only needs confirmation that he can bring before Arthur and -

Mordred stops, glancing up at the sign before he enters The Rising Sun.

Oh. 

Merlin pauses, unsure of what to do. It’s not a good place for clandestine meetings - too many people, too much noise, not enough privacy. On the other hand, he’d like to be absolutely sure Mordred isn’t up to anything before he returns to the castle. 

He enters the tavern and makes it three steps before he hears his name, and turns to see Gwaine raising an arm, grinning broadly. Next to him, shaking off his cloak, is Mordred. 

Merlin feels foolish and irritated, but he makes his way over to the table and pastes his best smile on his face. 

“Gwaine! Should’ve known I’d find you here,” he teases. His eyes sweep around the rest of the table. “Percival, Elyan,” he adds. “Mordred.” 

Mordred gives him a small smile, but his eyes are knowing, and Merlin wonders if he was aware he was being followed all along. 

“Join us,” Gwaine says, pulling Merlin onto the bench next to him and shoving a tankard into his hands. “You work harder than any of us, putting up with Princess’s moods all the time. You need a break.”

Gwaine’s irresistible, Merlin’s always found him to be, so he accepts the drink and stays. The conversation is light and comfortable, no talk of war or illness or danger. Merlin doesn’t participate much, content to watch and listen the others. Mordred fits in better than he’d imagined - he’s quieter than the others, certainly, but he’s not afraid to voice his opinion, to tease Gwaine or argue with Elyan. 

He fits well, he’s one of them, in a way Merlin never quite managed. It’s hard not to resent him for it.

*

By the time they all stumble out of the tavern, Merlin’s mind is buzzing, his feet a little unsteady, and he can’t quite get ahold of his thoughts. He’s never been good at holding his drink.

Mordred is up ahead with Percival and Elyan, wrapped up in an intense discussion of something or other, leaving Merlin to walk back with Gwaine. It’s been too long since he’s seen Gwaine, Merlin realises, seen him properly without the threat of death, kidnapping or the fall of Camelot hanging over them. He’s missed him.

Perhaps Gwaine has too, because he keeps bumping his shoulder against Merlin’s, grinning at him every time Merlin glares at him in return. They carry on like this all the way back to the castle, until finally Gwaine bumps too hard and Merlin stumbles. Gwaine laughs and steadies him, wrapping his arm around Merlin’s shoulder to steady him.

Merlin leans into him, glad for the extra support, and they walk in companionable silence for a while. They make it to the courtyard before Merlin blurts out the question he’s been wanting to ask all evening.

“What do you think of Mordred?” 

Gwaine looks thoughtful, his steps slowing as he ponders the question. 

“I like him,” he says eventually. “He’s got a good arm and a good eye, and he’s young enough that he’s got a long way to improve. He’ll be one of the best by the time Arthur is done with him.”

Merlin sighs. “I thought you’d say that.”

Gwaine, catching the look on his face, pulls him into an alcove off the square and looks at him closely. 

“You don’t like him?” he asks. He’s standing too close, Merlin can’t quite focus on him without going cross-eyed. He looks down and shrugs. Gwaine reaches out and tilts his head up so Merlin has to look at him. 

“I - ” he starts, and shakes his head. “I don’t really know him.” 

“But your instincts say not to trust him?”

Merlin laughs, a little bitterly. “My instincts? Since when does anyone value my instincts?”

“Come on, Merlin, that’s unfair. We’re friends, aren’t we? If you don’t trust Mordred, I want to - ”

Merlin shakes his head.“I don’t - I can’t - ” 

“Hey, hey, it’s fine,” Gwaine says, and he looks slightly alarmed now. His thumb brushes against Merlin’s cheek and then he cups his neck. The touch is familiar, almost painfully so, and for a moment Merlin thinks that maybe he can go back.

He leans in, kissing Gwaine on the lips, grabbing the front of his shirt as he does. They fit together like they used to, comfortably and easily. Gwaine holds him close, kissing him back softly, and for a moment it’s warm and comfortable and good. But Gwaine doesn’t open his mouth when Merlin swipes his tongue across his lips, and slowly he draws back. 

“Merlin,” he says, so softly that Merlin almost hates him, because he can hear the pity in his voice. “You know this isn’t what you want.”

Merlin wants to shove him away, to storm off, but instead he laughs again, and rests his head back against the cold stone. 

“Some days I have no idea what I want,” he says. “But it doesn’t matter, because I never seem to get it.” 

Gwaine leans against the wall next to him, remaining sympathetically quiet until - 

“Oh,” he says suddenly, turning to peer at Merlin. “Is that what the whole Mordred thing is about?

“Is _what_ what the whole Mordred thing is about?” Merlin narrows his eyes. 

“Arthur and Mordred are quite...friendly,” Gwaine starts.

You think I’m just jealous?”

Gwaine shrugs. “Look, I’ve already told you everything I’m going to on the subject of you and his highness. But it seems like lately you don’t know which way’s up; you hardly smile, you look worried all the time, and I know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

“It’s not - ” Merlin attempts to interrupt, but Gwaine keeps going. 

“And I don’t know how much of that has to do with Arthur, or Mordred, or whatever other thing you’re worrying about. But you can’t keep going like this, Merlin.”

He’s right, Merlin knows he is, but what can he do?

“Come on,” Gwaine says, shaking his head and pushing himself off the wall and dragging Merlin after him. “It’s too cold out here for this, I’m freezing my bollocks off. I need a fire and a bed, and if you turn up tomorrow looking like death, Arthur is going to blame me.”

*

He tries to take Gwaine’s advice, tries to see past his preconceptions and prejudices and stupid, ugly jealousy to see what Mordred’s really like. It’s nearly impossible.

“What’s the matter with you?” Arthur asks a few days later. Merlin startles, unaware that he’d been daydreaming, and finds Arthur frowning at him from the table. “You haven’t heard a single thing I’ve said.”

“Couldn’t be all that important, then, sire,” he says, smiling weakly. 

Arthur doesn’t take the bait. He studies Merlin closely, too closely for Merlin’s liking. “Do you need some time off? You’ve been helping Gaius for the last few days, are you tired?”

Merlin shakes his head. If Arthur sends him away, it will be that much harder to keep an eye on him, and on Mordred. “I’m fine, Arthur, really.”

“Well you don’t look it and you haven’t been acting it,” Arthur says grumpily, turning back to the papers in his hand. His forehead creases as he studies them, and before long he’s entirely absorbed. His hair is mussed and he’s wearing his red shirt and he looks tired. 

Merlin loves him so much he can’t stand it.

“That’s all for this evening,” Arthur says without looking up. “And take tomorrow off.”

“But - ”

“Don’t argue with me. I’ll have another servant attend me.”

There’s no point arguing, the best he can hope for is to turn up tomorrow morning and hope Arthur has forgotten.

*

Arthur doesn’t forget.

“I thought I told you to take today off,” he says, frowning as he sits up in bed. Merlin ignores him and continues readying Arthur’s clothes for the day. 

“ _Merlin_ ,” he says sharply. 

“Why is it that any time I ask for a day off, you won’t give it to me, but now you’re practically throwing me out?” Merlin retorts, crossing his arms and glaring right back. 

“Because I’m the king and you are my servant and you have to do what I tell you.” Arthur winces as the words come out, like he knows exactly how childish he sounds. 

“Oh, right, I forgot that I’m just a _servant_.” Merlin storms out of the room, and makes it halfway down the corridor before his anger runs out and leaves him feeling exhausted and empty.

*

He turns up at the knights training session and Arthur glares at him, but he perches on the fence and watches anyway. Arthur mostly ignores him, which is just fine by him. He’s always enjoyed watching Arthur fight like this, when there’s no real danger. Arthur is gorgeous; he moves fluidly and surely, always half a second ahead of whoever he’s fighting. He’s strong and fast and confident.

Afterwards, Merlin finds his feet leading him towards the armoury naturally, as if he has all his usual duties to perform. He knows Arthur won’t be happy to see him, but he could just was easily be there to speak to Gwaine or Percival, and while Arthur might scowl at him, he won’t actually make him leave. 

He takes his time, not in a hurry to help Arthur out of his armour, and by the time he reaches his destination, it’s almost empty. There are only two men remaining, standing near the bench on the far side of the room, and as soon as Merlin catches sight of them, he crouches back and peers through the half-open door, doing his best to remain out of sight.

“Do you need help, my lord?” Mordred asks, moving around Arthur. He tentatively reaches out for Arthur’s pouldron. Arthur, who’s are contorted strangely in an attempt to remove it himself, drops his arms in relief.

“Thank you,” he says. “Merlin would normally do it, but he’s not attending me today.” 

Merlin can’t help the curl of hot jealousy in his stomach as Mordred begins to work, his finger roaming over Arthur’s body, helping him out of his armour piece by piece. It’s _Merlin’s_ job, one that he loves, however much he complains about it. 

"Is Merlin unwell, my lord?" Mordred asks as he works, and Merlin startles, feeling strange to have his name mentioned between them.

"No," Arthur says shortly. He doesn’t offer any more information, and Mordred wisely doesn’t press. He works efficiently, although he’s not as fast or practised as Merlin is, and soon enough Arthur is down to his linen tunic and trousers.

“Thank you, Mordred,” Arthur says. He glances around the room as though looking for something, and he doesn’t see the hesitant expression on Mordred’s face. 

"Sire - " Mordred begins.

"Arthur," Arthur interrupts. "When we're alone, you should call me Arthur."

It’s said casually and it stings to hear, an intimacy thrown out so casually.

"Arthur, then," Mordred says. He looks rather pleased, and Merlin clenches his teeth. "I don't want to...speak out of turn," he continues hesitantly.

"Please, go ahead" Arthur says. "I value those who speak their minds, as long as it is done with good intention." 

"You seem troubled, Arthur," Mordred says, and he picks up Arthur's coat from where it lies on the floor. He holds it out and Arthur shrugs into it.

"A king is always troubled," he says, turning to face Mordred. 

"More so than usual, then," Mordred adds, with a wry smile. 

To Merlin’s surprise, rather than brushing off Mordred’s comment, assuring him that it’s nothing, Arthur’s shoulders slump, and he nods. 

“I have been,” he admits. He leans back against the bench and crosses his arms. “There are many things on my mind lately, and it becomes rather difficult to keep them all in order.” He sighs and scuffs his foot on the ground. “I shan’t burden you with them, they’re simply a part of ruling, albeit one I could do without.”

Mordred listened to his speech with an expression showing nothing but concern and a little pleasure at Arthur’s confidence. Now, when Arthur looks at him, he ducks his head slightly. “I’m always happy to serve you, sure,” he says, looking up to add, “in whatever way you need it.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes Merlin’s fists clench, there’s an undercurrent to his words that makes Merlin long to rush in there and push them apart. He shifts a little closer, any guilt over eavesdropping now totally pushed aside.

“Thank you,” Arthur is saying, looking Mordred directly in the eye. “Your loyalty is noted and...valued.” 

Merlin knows he’s not imagining it, the weird tension as Arthur’s eyes flick over Mordred’s face, as they both shift slightly, their bodies moving almost as if connected by a thread. It’s almost as if -

He covers his mouth to muffle his sharp inhale as Mordred moves a step closer and softly presses his lips against Arthur’s. Arthur is still for a second, then he puts his hands on Mordred’s shoulders and kisses him back gently, before pushing him away. 

Merlin can’t breathe.

“Arthur, I - ” Mordred says, looking stricken. 

“No, don’t apologise,” Arthur says, looking a little wild. “It’s not that I don’t - I shouldn’t - ” He’s struggling for his words in a very un-Arthur like manner, and it makes something tight and hot take root in Merlin’s gut. 

Mordred hesitantly moves forward again, clearly sensing Arthur’s reluctance is not a dismissal, and this time Arthur grabs him and kisses him fiercely. It looks rough and punishing, but that doesn’t seem to trouble Mordred, who lets Arthur move him as he wishes, who makes these soft, panting noises into Arthur’s mouth.

He needs to leave, he needs to stand and turn around and leave before he sees any more, before he has to watch -

Arthur kisses Mordred one last time, and then grabs him by the shoulders, turning him so his palms are resting against the wall and he starts to bite kisses into the back of his neck.

Merlin flees.

He doesn’t know where he’s going except _away_ , and he just keeps moving until he finds himself in one of the gardens behind the castle, a soft, shaded place with enough trees to hide him for a while.

He doesn’t understand it, what he saw, can’t make sense of it beyond the fact that it _hurts_ , a knife-sharp pain in his chest, watching Arthur take from Mordred what Merlin has longed to offer him for years.

Merlin rests his head against the tree at hiss back and closes his eyes, ignoring the hot sting behind his eyelids. He’s shed too many tears for Arthur.

For years he’s swallowed down what he feels for Arthur. It’s too difficult, it’s too _much_ , so Merlin forces the thoughts away whenever they creep up on him. He focuses on keeping Arthur safe, on advising him when he can, on doing his best to fulfil his destiny at Arthur’s side. It is - usually - enought. 

Sometimes, though, his eyes linger too long when he undresses Arthur in the evening, sometimes he can’t stop the thoughts from flooding his mind when he’s alone in his bed at night. Indulging never makes him feel better, only a hundred times more weary.

Seeing Mordred and Arthur together was like tearing open a carefully-healed cut, and he can’t staunch the bleeding, everything he’s felt or imagined or desired from Arthur flooding his mind. And in every vision, instead of himself, he sees Mordred. 

Merlin lingers in the garden until the sky starts to darken, grateful for the first time that he’s not required to attend Arthur this evening.

*

“I see the day off didn’t improve your mood,” Arthur comments, folding his arms and watching Merlin from across the room. Merlin’s been quiet all morning, going about his duties efficiently. Almost as if he were a typical servant, he can’t help but think.

“I’m grateful for the time off, Arthur,” he says, folding Arthur’s nightshirt and placing it in the wardrobe. Arthur stares at him.

“You’re never grateful for anything,” he says accusingly, and Merlin flinches. “Oh, come on, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes, well, sometimes words hurt, Arthur,” he snaps, before taking a deep breath and turning back to his work. He notes mechanically that Arthur’s favourite blue tunic has a tear and puts it aside to take to one of the seamstresses. 

"Well I’m glad to see you haven’t completely lost your spirit,” Arthur says. “Now tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing,” Merlin says, collecting the rest of the laundry and placing it in the basket. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, whining like he’s still the annoying prat Merlin met more years ago than he cares to remember. “ _Mer_ lin, come on, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Just _leave it_ , Arthur,” he says harshly, and Arthur looks surprised at his venom. “It’s nothing to - ”

Mercifully, he’s interrupted by a knock at the door, and when Arthur calls out ”Enter!”, Sir Leon steps into the room, his expression grim.

“What is it, Leon?” Arthur asks immediately.

“Reports of activity near the Mercian border, sire,” Leon says. His eyes flick to Merlin, but don’t linger. His presence at meetings like this hasn’t been questioned for years. “We have reason to believe Morgana is involved.”

Arthur groans, slumping back in his chair. “How bad?”

“Six dead, supposedly by sorcery.” 

Arthur sighs. “Get six men together,” he says. “I want you ready to ride in an hour.”

“Sire?” Leon looks surprised. “You will not accompany us?”

“No,” Arthur says. “I’m done playing Morgana’s games, I will not be lured into another trap. Be cautious, and if the situation turns into anything but a scout, return at once.”

Leon bows, murmurs, “Yes, sire,” and exits the room.

Arthur looks tired and sad, and about ten years older than he did before Leon entered the room. All Merlin’s former irritation melts away. He watches Arthur stand and cross to the window, leaning against the wall as he stares out of it.

“Arthur?” he asks tentatively. 

“She hates me so much it consumes her,” Arthur says flatly. “She will never be satisfied until I am dead, or she is.” 

There’s nothing to say to that, no comfort to offer that won’t sound hollow. Arthur’s words are true.

"I’m sorry, Arthur,” Merlin says simply. Arthur rests his head against the wall. 

“Did magic make her this way? Did it devour her until there was nothing left but hatred?” He pauses. “That’s what my father would have said.”

Such words no longer surprise Merlin, and rather than a sharp stab they’re a gentle, dull ache. 

“I don’t think so,” he says. “I think she can’t see anything but the wrong that’s been done to her and will never be satisfied until she takes what she thinks she’s owed. Magic is a means to an end for her.” 

Arthur is silent for a long moment, staring out the window. All Merlin can see of his face is the strong curve of his jaw, and his fingers itch to trace it comfortingly. “She must have been so afraid,” he says, sounding almost like he’s talking to himself. “When she was still here, still my _sister_.” He spits the word out. “Afraid of my father discovering her, afraid of what would be done to her. He wouldn’t have spared her,” he adds flatly. “He loved her, but he would have executed her for sorcery.”

Merlin’s throat aches, and he clutches his hands together too hard, afraid of what will come spilling out of his mouth if he loses control. 

“It can’t be the way,” Arthur says, soft and almost desperate. “There must be another way.”

Silence hangs thick between them for a moment, and Merlin’s pulse is racing, he’s trying to gather the right words in his mind, to find the combination that will make Arthur _see_ another way. And then Arthur clears his throat and turns, and the moment shatters. 

“Don’t you have work to be doing?” Arthur says shortly, nothing of the pain or softness of his voice showing in his face. moving back to the table and collecting his papers. “I must speak to the knights before they ride.”

Merlin watches him go and wonders if he just missed his best chance.

*

Leon and his men return a week later, without much to report.

“I don’t believe it was anything other than a local matter, sire,” Leon says. “I had a report that there was a disagreement between some of Morgana’s men and the local armed men. It got out of hand, and Morgana put an end to it.”

“She’s becoming messy,” Gwaine says. “And ruthless.”

“She has long been ruthless,” Arthur says, shooting Gwaine a look. “And you have no idea of where she moved next?” 

Leon shakes his head. “No, sire. That is, we believe she is still in Camelot’s lands, perhaps closer to us than we would like, but we couldn’t trace her. She is...” he hesitates, “very powerful.”

Arthur nods and dismisses his knights, and Merlin can’t help but notice, even in the midst of such worrying news, the way his eyes linger on Mordred for a fraction of a second, the small smile Mordred shoots him from under the dark hair curling on his forehead. 

He’s seen them together only twice since _that_ time, having begged off attending Arthur at training the last few times. Arthur, though perplexed, had been surprisingly acquiescent. But whenever he sees them, Arthur continues to treat Mordred with an intimacy and a friendliness that Merlin almost can’t bear to watch. 

It’s no longer clear to him where the line is between his fierce desire to keep Arthur safe, and the gut-churning jealousy he feels every time he sees Arthur touch Mordred. His own intentions are opaque to him and it is exhausting. Arthur clearly still notices his tension, but he no longer comments on it.

Merlin’s not sure how much longer he can keep going.

*

A few times a year, Arthur takes a handful of his closest men on a training exercise, half a day’s ride out, in the forests surrounding the south of Camelot. Although the actual training never lasts more than a few hours, Arthur insists on making camp for the evening, says it will be good for his men to bond outside the walls of Camelot.

Merlin agrees, and he always enjoys watching them talk and laugh together, more easy and comfortable than they are at court. They are all men he knows well, and who know him, and he enjoys sitting around the fire with a few of them, listening to their conversation and occasionally offering his own thoughts. Gwaine teases him constantly, but it’s so light and affectionate that he can’t be irritated, and he needles right back. 

The combination of the company and being away from Camelot, outdoors in the forest which breathes and pulses with life, soothes him. For the first time since he saw Arthur and Mordred in the armoury, the tension in his body eases just a little, and he’s content to lean against Gwaine’s shoulder and will himself to relax. 

Eventually, one by one, they all retire to their bedrolls scattered in the makeshift camp. Gwaine is the last to go, and as he does he nudges Merlin’s shoulder and urges him to get some rest.

Merlin shrugs. “Someone has to keep watch,” he says. He doesn’t sleep much these days, in any case, so he might as well make himself useful. 

“Mordred’s on duty,” Gwaine says. “And you look terrible. You’re no use to Arthur if you’re dead on your feet.”

“Alright _mother_ ,” he says. “If you leave me alone, I’ll finish cleaning up and go to sleep, okay?”

“There’s a good lad,” Gwaine says with a cheeky grin. 

Once he’s alone, away from the warm cameraderie and deep, pleasant voices, all the exhaustion and tension starts to creep back into his bones. 

He’s tired of all of it; the lies, the secrets, the constant, endless worry that he’s not going to be able to keep Arthur safe, that he won’t protect Arthur from the threats right in front of him. Arthur never _listens_ to him, he thinks bitterly. No matter how many times Merlin is proved right in his caution, Arthur insists on trampling head first into danger.

For a long time, he sits staring into the fire as it burns lower and lower, sleep never stealing upon him. He suddenly longs for the forest outside the little clearing, and he stands and makes for it, weaving his way through the camp and into the trees.

He loves the forest at night. He can feel it thrumming under his feet, can feel its call to his magic. He understands why the druids choose to live here. The feeling of it alive all around him is wonderful, it makes him feel less alone than he usually does.

Careful not to wander far from the camp, he makes a slow circuit of it instead, breathing in the cool night air and the sounds of the forest at night. 

He’s nearly back to where he started when soft voices catch his ears, and he realises he’s approaching the guard post. It’s a small clearing just off to one side of the camp, where the trees are thinnest and any likely attack would have to come from that direction.

Unsure of why, he moves towards it. Some vague idea of speaking to Mordred, of trying once again to gauge his true motives crosses his mind.

And quickly disappears when he realises Mordred is not alone.

Now that he’s with eyeshot, he can see that Arthur is with him. They’re sitting side-by-side, talking softly. Merlin sighs, surprised that he only feels a dull pang. He should return to the camp, really, but he doesn’t, a part of him still worried about what Mordred might do to Arthur. 

Their voices are too low for him to make out the words from this far away, but Arthur looks...relaxed in a way he doesn’t often these days. It’s the way he used to look around Merlin when they went hunting, before the throne started to weigh so heavily on his head. 

Thinking back, he hasn’t seen Arthur all evening; they must have been here for hours. If Mordred were planning to harm him, he’s had ample time. Suddenly aware of how cold and dark it is, Merlin’s almost decided to return to the camp when something changes.

Mordred stops talking and he looks down, the very picture of hesitation. It’s clear he’s working up the nerve to say something, or do something. When he looks up at Arthur and says something, Arthur frowns, looking confused, but he nods. 

Mordred slides off the log so he’s kneeling next to Arthur, and Merlin’s cheeks heat. Again, he’s about to turn away when Mordred extends his hand towards Arthur, palm up, and in the still second before anything happens, Merlin understands what he’s about to do.

Merlin’s moving towards them instantly, quickly and silently, but it’s too late, he can’t do anything, because Mordred’s eyes are already flashing gold and there’s a ball of light in his hand and Merlin’s _failed_ , he let his guard down too quickly, it’s going to happen like this, not on a field of battle like he’s been dreaming but - 

He stops dead in his tracks.

Because Mordred’s just kneeling there, holding the ball of light still, eyes fixed on Arthur’s face, a scared, hopeful expression on his own. There’s no fire, no unearthly force, no _danger_.

Arthur jerks back when the light materialises and he stares at Mordred’s palm for long, long moments, before he drags his gaze up to Mordred’s face. 

And even though he’s too far away to hear them, he knows Arthur’s next words as clearly as if he were standing next to him.

“You’re a sorcerer.”

Merlin’s frozen to the spot, stunned, horrified, and morbidly curious. 

Mordred nods, looking nervous, before the light vanishes and he continues to watch Arthur’s face.

It feels hours before Arthur speaks, it must feel just as long for Mordred, but finally he does, leaning forward a little, his lips moving, twisting, forming words Merlin can’t hear and doesn’t want to.

Arthur is not drawing his sword, he’s not shouting for his knights, he’s not making Mordred leave and for an eternity, Merlin stands there watching them, a strange, numb feeling spreading through his limbs as they talk.

And just when Merlin thinks there are no more pieces of himself left to break, Mordred leans in and kisses Arthur, and Arthur welcomes it, hands cupping Mordred’s face as he kisses back. It’s...tender in a way the last kiss Merlin witnessed wasn’t, and he can’t look away.

It doesn’t last long; they break apart and Arthur stands, speaking final words to Mordred before he turns and leaves. As though his movements broke a spell on Merlin, he tears himself away from the scene, and backs away into the forest.

*

Merlin doesn’t return to the camp.

He finds a hollowed out tree, grass growing soft and thick inside the open trunk, and he sits. He can’t think, really, can only feel a dull pounding ache in his head as he plays the scene he just witnessed over and over in his mind.

If he could have wished for anything, if he could have had anything at all, he would have chosen to be able to tell Arthur the truth about himself; all of it, every secret he’s held tight to himself for so long, and have him react with kindness, compassion, admiration. With love.

With everything he’s just given Mordred. 

It’s almost a relief, he thinks wildly, feeling the hysteria rising in his throat. To know that Arthur can be made to listen, that he won’t fly off the handle at the revelation of magic, that he knows, deep down, it is not evil in and of itself. That he’s willing to accept magic hidden from him by someone close to him. 

Except... He already knew that didn’t he? Deep down, he’s known for a while now that Arthur’s views on magic have been slowly changing, however much conflict he feels on the subject. For all his worry about not being the man his father wanted him to be, Arthur is sure in his convictions and compassionate in his judgements, and Merlin hasn’t believed, not really, that Arthur would have him executed or banished simply for possessing magic. 

But that grain of fear that maybe, just maybe, Arthur’s old prejudices are too deeply-rooted to be overcome has kept him silence. He’d rather continue as they have, however much it’s starting to strain on him, than risk losing everything.

Merlin folds his arms over his knees and rests his forehead against them. For a moment he entertains the idea of not going back. Of just _leaving_. He could go back to Ealdor, perhaps, see his mother. Live a quiet, unremarkable life. 

He can’t, he knows, he would never be able to simply leave Arthur like that. Not when Arthur has such a talent for getting into trouble, not when he still commands all of Merlin’s loyalty. He knows Arthur values him, his opinions and his honesty, and that despite the straining of their relationship in recent months, that Arthur considers him a friend. 

He’s always been content, happy even, with Arthur’s friendship and confidence, and there’s no reason it should be different now, is there? Even though Mordred has taken every other thing he’s ever wanted, even though he seems to have Arthur’s heart, his trust, and his confidence. 

It doesn’t mean things can’t continue as they have.

Merlin is tired. A bone-deep weariness that he can’t remember what it’s like to be without. He rests against the tree and lets himself get lost in the sounds and feel of the forest.

He doesn’t sleep, but he drifts.

*

By the time morning comes, Merlin’s dead on his feet. He can feel his magic itching under his skin, it’s such an effort to hold it back when he’s tired, to stop himself from easing every little trouble and discomfort with a flick of his wrist.

Arthur doesn’t comment on his appearance; he’s given up of late on drawing Merlin out of himself. Annoying as it was, Merlin misses it. Gwaine rides next to him silently, and it’s clear from the looks he keeps shooting him that he’s worried. Merlin’s head feels fuzzy and overcrowded, too many thoughts chasing each other around his tired mind, and he’s grateful that no one tries to talk to him.

He’s almost in a trance by the time they reach Camelot, and he stumbles as he dismounts, where he’s usually so fluid.. A strong arm catches him, and he looks up in gratitude expecting to see Gwaine’s face. Instead it’s Arthur, and he looks worried.

“Get some rest,” he says. It’s said quietly, almost tenderly, with Arthur still holding him steady and close, and suddenly there’s a sob choking Merlin’s throat. He swallows it down and nods, not arguing for once, and he can feel Arthur’s eyes on him as he walks away.

Once he makes it to his chambers, ignoring Gaius’s worried looks, he collapses onto his cot, curled in on himself as tightly as he can manage, and falls into a shallow, agitated sleep.

When he wakes, the room is almost dark, and he feels uncomfortable and disoriented. He stands and splashes water on his face, and then he pulls of his shirt and does the same to his chest. 

The cool water feels fantastic against his skin, and he incants softly, causing the bowl to fill again. He pulls a clean linen shirt on and sits on the edge of his bed. 

He feels utterly and completely lost.

The tears that he’s been choking down for weeks now are burning hot behind his eyes, and he’s not sure how much longer he can hold them back. The overwhelming need to shout, scream, break something is washing over him and he needs to get out of here and -

There’s a soft knock at his door.

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut and presses the heels of his palms against them.

“I’m fine, Gaius, I’ll be out in a minute!” he calls, his voice shaking slightly. 

There’s another knock, and the door creeps open. 

“Gaius, I - ” 

Except it’s not Gaius’s head sticking around the door, it’s Arthur. Merlin stands up.

“Oh, Arthur, I’m sorry, did you need me, I - ”

“Sit down, Merlin,” Arthur says, looking slightly perplexed at Merlin’s uncharacteristic solicitousness. He opens the door fully and comes in, shutting it behind him. Merlin can count on one hand the number of times Arthur has been in his room. The last time was years ago. He watches silently as Arthur looks around the room curiously. 

“You read a great deal,” Arthur says, looking at the stacks on the floor. Merlin doesn’t reply, and Arthur continues to poke around the room. 

“Uh, sire?” he says, when Arthur doesn’t appear to have anything to say. “Do you need something from me?”

Arthur doesn’t answer right away, but he perches on the ledge that serves for a table when Merlin needs it. He sits facing slightly away from Merlin, his eyes fixed out the small window. 

“You’ve always spoken to me honestly,” he says eventually. “Even when I didn’t want you to.” 

He can’t help but smile at that, even if it’s bittersweet. “I’ve always thought you deserved my honest opinion, Arthur,” he says carefully.

“And you’ve shown yourself to be trustworthy,” Arthur continues, as if Merlin hadn’t spoken. He looks away from the window, straight at Merlin. His expression is serious. “I want your opinion on something, but for now it must remain a secret.” 

Merlin’s heart speeds up, but he answers steadily. “You have my word.”

Arthur’s fingers are toying with the laces of his shirt, and he glances down at them before he speaks. “Mordred has magic.” 

It’s almost like being dunked in cold water, and Merlin flinches. Why is Arthur talking to _him_ about this, why did he actively seek out Merlin to ask his opinion? Mordred is more or less the last thing Merlin wants to discuss with Arthur. 

He bites his lip, unsure of how to respond. Is he meant to feign surprise? Fear? Distrust? Arthur carries on before he can attempt any of them.

“He told me himself,” Arthur continues, “and he assured me he does not intend to use it against me. He said he had no desire to hide it from me any longer, and he threw himself on my mercy.” Arthur’s mouth twists strangely on the last word. 

“What did you say to him?” is the best Merlin can manage. Arthur shakes his head. 

“I want to know what _you_ think should be done with him.” 

“Arthur I’m just a - ”

“If you say servant, I’m going to come over there and throttle you.” Arthur is looking at him now, a small smile on his face. “You’re only a servant when it suits you to be. You’ve long been my advisor and my - my friend,” he says, hesitating slightly. “So give me your advice.”

“Magic is banned,” he says. It’s a reflex, an automatic reaction, however much he hates speaking the words.

“Yes, I am aware of that, thank you,” Arthur says tightly, turning away again. “So you think he should be arrested? Charged with sorcery and burnt at the stake?”

“No,” Merlin says immediately. “Of course not. You know I have never been in favour of _that_.”

“You think it too harsh a punishment?” Arthur asks. “What then? Should he be imprisoned for years? Stripped of his knighthood? Banished?” 

He wants to say _yes_ , he can feel the word climbing out of his throat. It would be so easy to urge Arthur to do it, to claim what a danger Mordred poses, and have him gone forever from Camelot. Have Arthur finally, certainly safe from him. 

But he remembers the last time he chose condemning Mordred over everything else, how much that had hurt. And he remembers the previous night, he remembers how gently Arthur had spoken, how he’d kissed Mordred, and he feels sick with a mixture of shame and sorrow. 

“No,” he says quietly. 

“Why not?” Arthur looks strangely sharp, his eyes boring into Merlin. “If magic is so terrible, why not?”

“Do you trust him?” Merlin asks. “You did before. He is a Knight of Camelot, you trusted him with your life, you would have given your own for his. Do you still feel that?” He closes his eyes, not wanting to see Arthur’s expression.

“Yes,” Arthur says. There’s frustration in his voice that Merlin doesn’t understand. “Yes, I do.”

“Then there’s your answer.” 

“So I should just ignore his magic? Pretend he doesn’t have it? Force him to hide it?”

“If that is what it takes.” 

A loud _clap_ echoes through the room and Merlin’s eyes fly open. Arthur’s standing, his palm flat against the wall where he slapped it, and his eyes are full anger and sorrow and something else Merlin can’t place. 

The moment their eyes meet Arthurs slumps, tilting his head back against the wall and breathing out.

“Enough, Merlin. Enough,” he says.

It makes no sense, none of it, and Merlin flounders for a foothold.

“What are you - Arthur - ”

“Tell me, Merlin,” Arthur says, nothing but resignation in his voice. His eyes are closed. “Are you ever going to tell me the truth?”

Merlin stares at him, frozen.

“I’ve been waiting for it,” Arthur continues. “So many times, I’ve lead you to it, almost begged you to tell me, but you always hold back. Do you truly think so little of me? I know,” Arthur opens his eyes, his expression pained, “I know I have not always given you much reason to speak up, but surely you don’t think I would ever condemn you for what you are.”

There’s no question of what he means, no other way to interpret it, but Merlin can’t speak. He can barely breathe around the panic, and before he knows it he’s leaping off the bed, and then he’s standing stock still in the middle of the room. “Arthur...”

Arthur laughs, a soft, humourless thing. “Even now, you can’t say it.” He pushes himself off the wall and steps towards Merlin. “It’s just the two of us, you know I know everything, and you still can’t give me the truth.”

“Arthur,” he says for the third time, and now it’s a whisper. Arthur is close, close enough that another step would have them chest-to-chest. “I’m a sorcerer,” he whispers. He fixes his eyes them on Arthur’s right collar bone. “I have magic. I’ve been this way since I was born.” Every emotion he’s felt in the last week, the last month, the last years, is bubbling to the surface and he feels as though he will fly apart under the weight of them. “I’ve used magic countless times over the years, and every time, in every instance, it was for you.” 

He’s not sure when it happened, but his cheeks are wet. “I’m sorry,” he says, and now he’s nearly hyperventilating, “Arthur, I’m so sorry, I wanted to - so many times I wanted - it was so _hard_ \- ”

The next thing he knows his face is tucked against Arthur’s neck and Arthur’s arms are around him, strong and comforting, holding him close. There’s no joy, no happiness at being here, only sheer, debilitating relief, and he leans into Arthur, lets him hold him up as he relearns how to breathe.

How much time passes, Merlin isn’t sure, but when Arthur gently pushes him back, his hands warm and solid on Merlin’s shoulders, he feels a hundred times lighter. 

“Was that so hard?” Arthur asks, the corner of his mouth twitching. They’re still in each other’s space, Merlin can see the remnants of his tears clinging to Arthur’s neck, he can see the rough golden stubble on Arthur’s cheeks. He rests his forehead against Arthur’s, breathing him in, marvelling at the closeness he hasn’t felt in too long.

“Prat,” he mumbles.

Arthur laughs softly and drops his arms to Merlin’s waist, holding him closer, and they breathe together for long moments.

There’s a shift, a tiny movement that Merlin can’t really track, but then he’s tilting his head slightly, his nose brushing Arthur’s, and Arthur leans in a fraction closer, his hands tightening ever so slightly around Merlin. It’s barely a kiss, just a soft pass of lips over each other, once, twice, three times, until Arthur pulls him closer and Merlin goes, their lips clinging together longer this time. Arthur makes a soft noise as he kisses him, lips parting gently. 

Arthur’s kisses are better than magic, they fill up some empty, desperate part of him, and he kisses back more boldly now, opening his mouth to Arthur’s, dizzy on the tangle of their tongues together. 

There’s no space or time to think, to wonder how or why this is happening, he can only cling to the seconds as they pass, and hope it never ends.

Reality settles back over him abruptly, and he suddenly pushes Arthur away. 

“What - what about Mordred?” he asks, the words tumbling out before he remembers he’s not supposed to know about that. 

“Mordred?” Arthur looks perplexed. “We already talked about - oh.” His eyes widen, and then he frowns. “I’d ask how you know, but you always seem to know everything.” 

Merlin looks away guiltily. 

“I don’t...” Arthur begins before trailing off. 

“My...arrangement with Mordred,” Arthur says, “is, well, convenient. I care about him, certainly, he’s dear to me.” Even now, the words hurt to hear and Merlin hates himself for it. “I have a great deal of affection for him.” He pauses before drawing Merlin’s chin up to look him in the eye. “My heart has long been elsewhere,” he says quietly. “And Mordred knows it. He would not be hurt if my situation were to change.”

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, battening down against the onslaught of emotion. His heart aches, though whether with joy or relief he can’t quite tell. 

“If you would rather I spoke to him before...” he trails off, cheeks pink. Merlin touches his cheek gently, amazed at being allowed to do so. 

“Arthur, I know we still have a lot to talk about,” he says hesitantly, and swallows. “And I don’t expect to have your trust right away.” 

Arthur opens his mouth to interrupt, but Merlin shakes his head. “You don’t have to deny it, I know it’s true.”

Arthur looks pained. “I know your intentions were always good,” he says. “And I have faith in your loyalty to me. But Merlin, you lied to me for _years_. I trust you, I do, but I don’t know how to just let that go.” 

“I know,” Merlin says. “I accept it.” It’s so much better than the nightmare scenarios that have filled his thoughts for years. 

“But,” Arthur continues, “I’ve not always treated you with the...kindness,” he hesitates a little, looking down guiltily, “or the respect you deserve. And I’m sorry.”

They stand in silence, neither sure of what to say. Eventually, Arthur sighs.

“I need to go,” he says. “There are people I have to talk to and things I have to think about.” 

Merlin nods, although he would love nothing better than for Arthur to stay with him. To push Arthur down onto his tiny bed and cover him with his body and make sure he never leaves again. As it is, he steps back. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says. 

“Don’t be late,” Arthur replies, and his smile is the most genuine Merlin’s seen in weeks. Before he leaves, he catches Merlin’s wrist and pulls him close, kissing him gently. “Things are going to be better, Merlin,” he says. “I promise you. Just wait and see.”

*

Three weeks later, Mordred comes to find him.

Merlin’s sitting under his favourite tree, hidden entirely from sight, enjoying a brief respite from his tasks. Yet he’s not all that surprised when he sees Mordred’s dark hair peeping out over the hedges, nor when Mordred sits down next to him without saying a word. 

Merlin has been itching to talk to him, but has never found the ideal moment. This would appear to be it.

“I saw a vision,” he says after a long silence. “A druid, on his deathbed, showed it to me.”

“And what did you see?” Mordred asks. He sounds genuinely curious.

“Arthur’s death,” Merlin replies softly. “At your hand.”

“I wish him no harm,” Mordred says after a moment. “When I took my oath as a knight, when I knelt before Arthur and swore him my allegiance, I meant every word.”

“I don’t doubt you, now,” Merlin says. “And yet the dreams still plague me, I still have visions at night of the prophecy.”

There’s a long, thoughtful silence before Mordred speaks. 

“There are many prophecies concerning yourself,” he says. “You’ve heard them haven’t you?” 

Merlin nods. 

“Do you believe them?”

“What do you mean? Of course I do.” Merlin frowns.

“And if Arthur were not who he is? If Arthur were a tyrant, like his father, or a weak man, easily led. Would you still lay your life and your magic at his feet? Would you still give everything you have to see him succeed?”

He has no answer to that. 

“Or,” Mordred continues, “if you had never heard any such prophecies, if you knew nothing of them, would you then not be willing to forge Albion with Arthur?” 

Merlin is silent, but there is only one possible answer. 

“Mordred, you and Arthur - ”

“I think I reminded him of you,” Mordred says, smiling cheekily. “I think he always suspected the truth, that there was something about the air of secrets around me that he liked.”

Merlin laughs. “He likes you a great deal,” he says. “You represent everything he hopes for Camelot, for Albion. You’re young, you don’t carry the prejudices of the old ways. You’re not of nobility, but you are noble, and a good, honest fighter.” 

Mordred laughs too, and Merlin realises it’s the first time he’s heard it. Once their laughter dies away, Mordred stands and fixes him with a curiously serious look. 

“You would do well, Emrys,” he says, “not to set too much store by prophecy, or by destiny. It will consume you.”

And then he walks away, leaving Merlin deep in thought.

*

Arthur finds him later, sitting on the window ledge in Arthur’s chambers, gazing thoughtfully out the window.

“What do you think about destiny?” Merlin asks when he catches sight of Arthur. 

Arthur wrinkles his nose as he pours a goblet of wine and sips it. “I don’t believe in it.”

“Why not?”

Arthur slips in beside him and curls his arm around Merlin’s waist. “I despise the idea that I am at the whim of the gods or fate or anything other than my own decisions.”

“But you’ve seen the power held in the old religion, you know what it can do.”

Arthur looks slightly uncomfortable, and he sets his goblet down and turns Merlin to face him. 

“I’m still learning,” he says. “I don’t know what place there is for the old religion in Camelot. I hope that some kind of balance can be found, but I don’t really know what’s going to happen.” He looks troubled, and Merlin can’t help but kiss him.

“What do you think?” Arthur asks when they separate. His lips are shiny and pink and distracting, but Merlin drags his eyes up to Arthur’s. 

“Someone who is apparently much wiser than I am told me not to set too much store by destiny.” 

Arthur nuzzles into the side of his neck. “And what do you think?”

Merlin wraps his arms around him, holding him close.

“I think he’s right,” he says.


End file.
